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E P I L O G U E T W O
E L L A
Frogtown was a sliver of land on the west side of the Los Angeles River—
a dry rift in the city three out of four seasons, with trees and wildlife in the
center, and an unruly, fast-moving waterway in winter. Every year—well,
into the 1970s—thousands of red-legged toads would leap into the streets,
hopping on lawns and shitting on windshields. Toads were miscategorized
as frogs, and the name Frogtown stuck even after the riverbed was paved in
concrete and the toads stopped coming.
Things changed. People changed. Sometimes the idea of yourself that
you’d nurtured your whole life was shattered, and the pieces glittered in the
moonlight.
“They’re late,” Logan said.
The GAC’s LA River piece had been slated for sunset, but the sky had
been dark for half an hour already. Twitter didn’t have an update for the
hundreds of people crowded along the River’s path.
“That’s what happens when you get the city involved.”
The GAC was more than half an hour late. They were actually months
late. The frogs would have been out and gone already, but the delay was
unavoidable. Irma and Amilcar had been caught setting up, and Tasha—
who was too savvy by a mile—got the principal of her school to contact the
mayor’s office. He pitched it as a free speech project. The city issued
permits but demanded changes, and a deposit for cleanup.
Amilcar wouldn’t come to me for money, but Tasha did, and I
demanded to pay for it. I was folded back into the GAC with my friends—
one of the many places I belonged.
Logan pulled me close and kissed my temple.